Getting Away with Murder
by BrokenDreamer523
Summary: A Fic told in the perspective of a killer
1. Chapter 1

As I stared into the face of my first victim, I could not help but be shocked at my own viciousness. Her eyes were pleading with mine, begging me to let her go, and although my heart ached for her, I never once looked back. I couldn't in fear that I would do something wrong. I watched as the life faded out of her, and then made the anonymous call from her cell phone, which you found next to her body with no prints on it. Everybody is sick in their own way. Of course, not everyone who is sick will result to murder, that's just a select few. Others find their outlet in other ways. Some thrust themselves in to work, like your buddy Grissom. Some don't sleep for days on end, Like Sarah. Some gamble, like Warrick. We're the select few who can stomach ourselves after murdering who you say are innocent people. But who are you to determine how innocent these people really are? Some of us select our victims very carefully. We watch their lives. We become them. We place ourselves in their shoes, and when we don't like what we see we strike. In the eyes of the law it is wrong, and that's where you come in. You're like these peoples superheros. They need someone to protect them, because heaven knows there are plenty of us waiting to strike.

The question most frequently asked is how can anyone be so heartless? The answer to that question is simply different for each person. Some people do it because they like to watch the pain. Others do it because they like to have control over everything. And then there are the deadliest. The ones who have been scorned by those they look for. The true life Cask of Amontillado. People are twisted. If you can bring yourself to suffocate someone with their own neck tie, something is wrong with you. It may not be mentally, as so many who get caught plead to these days, but there is something in the back of your mind, telling you to do these awful things. A driving force that pushes you to continue, even when you want to stop.

There are also two kinds of us. Those who want to get caught; and those who do not. It's easy to tell the difference if you look hard enough. Some of us leave no evidence. We frustrate the CSI's assigned to our cases, because no matter how hard they look, we left no trace. We keep them awake at night, as they try to piece together the murder without any speck of evidence. They know it's no use, but they have to hold up hope that somewhere along the line we slipped up. We respect them for keeping on top of it, though we all know it is no use. Then there are the others. The ones that wish to get caught, so they leave traces of evidence everywhere, and just sit and wait for it to happen. Those are usually the ones who do not have much experience. You of all people know that. They are usually the wives who were cheated on by their husbands, or the secretary who expected her boss to leave his wife.

There are also two types of killing. The one two three and it's over killing, or the one I prefer. The one where you draw out your victims' death. You listen to them plea for their life, even thought they know it's futile. I know if anyone were to go through this they would understand it, though I also understand that no one in their right mind wishes to come an inch within their death. That is something usually avoided at all costs, and if you are forced to experience it, you fight it as much as you can until it's time to give up; Until there is no fight left in you. When the only thing left is the horrifying realization you're about to die. Some people fight until the end. They die struggling. What most people don't realize is the less you struggle the longer you live. Some people choose to torture their victims before they finish them off. That is probably the most painful way to die, and even someone as sick as I am would not wish that upon anybody. There are twisted sick people in this world, and the sooner you realize it the better.

We teach our children wrong. We tell them the world is a safe place, whereas you and I both know it isn't. There are crimes committed everyday, right in front of our eyes. How dare society give children the sense of protection? They're setting these kids up for a world full of bunnies and unicorns that don't exist.

This is my first trace of evidence ever putting you in the direction towards me. I know you are assigned to all of my cases, and I know just as well as you that they pop up frequently. You think Grissom does it to punish you. You think he realizes that they're all from me, and because of this he puts you on the case because you seem to be unable to catch me. I know it frustrates you to no end that I seem to disappear without a trace. That I leave nothing behind for you to run with. In any other situation, I might say sorry, but the fact is... Murder is an art. You either have what it takes or you don't. There's never any forced entry, no fingerprints, no hair, no skin cells under the fingernails.

It keeps you up at night doesn't it? Knowing that a killer lurks, and you have the technology to catch them, but somehow you are unable to. I watch you, just as you try to watch me. As you try to figure out my next move. I bet throughout this whole letter the one thing on your mind is the fact that if you can trace the printer that printed this letter you'll know where I've been. I have decided to save you some time. The answer lies within your own walls. I am a ghost. Ask around, not one person saw someone suspicious enter or leave this building, but the proof that I have been here is right in front of your face. Does it give you a chill down your spine to know that the one place you are supposed to be safe from murderers, the only place where you can help put the bad people in jail, is a place just as easy to infiltrate as any other? I'm watching you Nick Stokes, and we will meet again.


	2. Chapter 2

Nick Stokes stared at the letter in his hand. The killer he had been after for months had been right in his grasp, and he Hadn't't even noticed it. He sighed clearly frustrated with the fact that it had been three months and thirteen unrelated deaths, and still he couldn't't catch this person. He would never admit it, but the person was right, it did send shivers up his spine to even think about having someone watching him personally all the time. He hated not knowing where the next body would turn up, and even more than that, he hated being on this person's cases. They were so uninteresting. He searched and searched again, and still there was nothing to find. Thirteen bodies identical in a few ways. Time of death was always the same, as was the position and the weapon used, though a weapon was never found. Nick rubbed his eyes and sighed. He was a sitting duck, waiting for the next time the killer struck.

Before long Sarah Sidle was at the door, leaning against it. She hated this news as much as Nick did. She sighed as she headed in.

"Brass just called. He found another body. Same position, same time of death, same apparent cause." Nick hopped up, getting ready to work until morning to find some strand of evidence that wasn't't there. He approached the house, seemingly the same as all the others, and he got a chill. He felt like he had been here before. As he walked into the house, something caught his eyes. Something shiny in the corner of the room. He walked over to it and rolled his eyes. It was just the gold light switch glimmering against the light of the lamp. He sighed and turned back, and couldn't't help but let out a laugh. Right there next to the vic's body were fibers and some hair. Nick couldn't't help but feel triumphant, though he prayed now that this fiber and hair didn't't come from the vic. This was the only lead he had, and he was going to run with it. He bagged it and couldn't't wait to get back to CSI headquarters.

Why Nick was surprised when he got back to headquarters and found a letter on his desk was unknown. Shouldn't't he have expected something? He picked up the letter and his eyes widened. Was this some kind of sick joke? There in front of his face was a picture of him, clear as day, taken right where he was now. It was taken earlier today, Nick could tell, because Sarah was in the background. This was taken right before he left. He felt his heart begin to jump, as he read the letter.

_ Nick, Nick, Nick. You thought you had me didn't't you? Did you seriously think I was amateur enough to leave hairs and fibers? How naïve you really are. I had been plotting this little setback for you for awhile now, but I had to wait for the right time to strike. I had to wait to see if you would reach your breaking point. Congratulations, you passed the test. Somehow you still have patience to deal with my case. Though I do not doubt your CSI ability, I find it strange that you can still stomach sitting around and waiting for me to strike. I watch you very carefully. You want a hint darling? A little clue as to who I can possibly be? Would that really help you? Or would it make you sick, to know who was watching you all this time. It's a yes or no question Nick, why haven't you answered? Do you want to know who I am or not. It's as simple as that._

Nick was confused as to what was expected of him. He didn't't realize it, but before he could stop himself he opened his mouth and said yes. He was answering the question, even though he must be seriously crazy to think the killer could hear him. he heard a laugh from the corner of the room, and he looked to see a small girl, looking incapable of killing a bee standing there. His mouth dropped open a little. He was supposed to believe this was the killer he had been chasing?

"What's wrong Nick? I don't live up to your potential? I don't fit in to the normal serial killer type? Honey, let me tell you, if I wanted to fit into that mold I could. I don't want to. I told you I'm a ghost. I've passed through this place so many times it wasn't't funny. I could pass off as someone who worked here if I wanted to. And it was all to get to you. You're the one I wanted to see." She replied as she watched Nick's utterly confused face.

"Oh, so you don't remember me? Let me refresh your memory." She said as she paused to see if Nick would get who she was. When he didn't't she pressed on. "Two years ago I was seventeen years old. I woke up to find both my parents, and my little sister strangled. I had a one year old daughter that was taken from me, and no surprise here, You're the CSI who accused me of murdering my family. Who claimed my prints were all over the house." The girl spit the words out bitterly. "I lived there. My little girl was taken away from me, and the woman who actually did it roamed the streets while I did eighteen months. When I found who actually did it, I strangled her as she did to my parents. I watched the life drain out of her, but it wasn't't enough. I knew they'd assign someone from night crew to the case, and I prayed it was you. Sure enough it was. We have a lot of catching up to do." She said as she watched Nick's understanding face. He knew who she was now, but it could have been too late.


End file.
